The Hitch-Hunter's Guide to Apple Country
by Diana Lucifera
Summary: Things aren't alright after Roosevelt, and Dad's call takes them from "Manfully Ignoring the Problem" to "Screaming at Each Other on the Side of the Road." Sam wishes he could say he was surprised. (Brother's Blood 'verse)
1. Chapter 1

Full Title: "The Hitch-Hunter's Guide to Apple Country (or Why Abandoning Your Back-Up at a Dairy Queen and Setting Off to Prove Some Macho Point is a TERRIBLE Idea)"

Sorry for the delay on this one, guys. Real life kind of sucker-punched us for a little while there.

Fear not, though. We've been hard at work on these little nuggets of pain and torment, as well as the sequel, and things should move on at a pretty regular pace from here on out.

Barring unforeseen complications such as illness, artlessness, and velociraptors, of course. See you next week for Chapter 2!

* * *

Sam lies awake and listens to the sound of Dean breathing at his back.

His head is still pounding, an awful building of pressure that threatens to split his skull at the seams, his throat stings from crying, and he knows that things between him and Dean are going to be just as raw and broken in the light of day. Dean is still here, a warm, solid line at Sam's back, but Sam knows him, knows that his brother is hurt in more ways than one, and no matter how Dean tries to push it down, it's going to rise up and swallow them both sooner or later.

And in spite of all that, the truth is that Sam is so, so lucky. If Dean hadn't been carrying that unloaded pistol, if Sam had hit him a little harder, hesitated a little less…

He doesn't even want to think about it. Doesn't want to imagine a reality where Sam has to watch, trapped and screaming inside of his own mind, as he destroys the most important thing in his world.

He'd said a lot of things under Ellicott's influence that he hadn't meant – not really, not the way they came out – but there's one thing he'd said that he knows is true without a doubt: If he had killed Dean, he wouldn't have had the strength to walk out of there. That would be it. Over. Everything Sam and Dean have done and been through reduced to just another crazy murder-suicide at Roosevelt Asylum, and God, he doesn't even want to imagine.

Since Jess, Sam has felt like he's hanging by a single, solitary thread, and some days, it's like he can actually feel it starting to fray and slip from his grasp as he dangles over this dark, endless pit full of unnamed nightmares just waiting to swallow him whole, and Sam _can't_.

He can't do this alone.

He can't live in a world without Dean in it, came to terms with that a long time ago with an IV needle in one hand and a bowie knife in the other, and the idea of it being _Sam_ who took Dean away? Sam's finger on the trigger? Sam's hands covered in his brother's blood?

_No._

He closes his eyes tight and listens as Dean snorts and shifts in his sleep so he's breathing right into Sam's ear, a move that would normally drive Sam crazy but, right now, just fills him with a sense of helpless, dizzying relief.

Dean is alive. He's alive and he's right here, and Sam might have damaged their relationship in ways Dean may never really forgive, and his brother still has plenty of time to come to his senses and leave before Sam gets another chance to destroy him like he's destroyed everything else he's touched, and maybe Dean will. But even if he does, even if the pain of that thought is so sharp Sam can barely breathe with it, it's okay, because at least his brother is _alive_.

The sound of Dean's phone buzzing on the nightstand startles Sam out of his thoughts, and he fumbles for it, flips it open and croaks a low "Hello?"

"Sam? It that you?"

Sam knows that voice, would know it anywhere. He's thought about what he'd say the next time he heard it, replayed the words a thousand times, but now all he can get out is:

"_Dad_."

"Yeah, it's me," John says.

He sounds tired, a little choked up in a way Sam has never heard him, and Sam has no idea what it means, just knows that hearing their dad sounding human and vulnerable somehow makes him angrier, like John's doing it on purpose, making Sam care about him when all Sam wants to feel is hatred. He wants to scream at his father, wants to hang up with a click and send the phone hurtling across the room, but he needs to know:

"You're after the thing that killed Mom, aren't you?"

John is silent for a moment.

"Yeah," he exhales. "It's a demon, Sam."

Beside him, Sam feels Dean stirring, eyes opening to squint up at him with blurry curiosity.

"A demon?" Sam asks. "Are you sure?"

"Hey," Dean rumbles, rolling back and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Who is that?"

"Do you know where it is?" Sam demands, holding up a hand for Dean to wait.

"Yeah, I think I'm finally closing in on it."

"Where are you?" Sam demands, scrambling for the motel stationary. "We're leaving right now."

There's a long pause.

"Sammy, put your brother on the phone."

"Why?" Sam demands, eyes narrowing.

"Son—"

"Don't," Sam cuts him off. "You've had six months to talk to him, and you couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone. Right now, you're talkin' to me."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up, and John exhales long and loud into the receiver.

"I called to tell you boys to stop trying to find me, Sam," he says. "I told you from the beginning not to look for me—"

"No," Sam hisses, "you drugged me and left it in a goddamn note."

Dean's eyes narrow in the dim as he elbows up, snags Sam's forearm to get the phone away from his ear.

"Is that Dad?"

"Dean almost died," Sam continues, feeling the familiar fire burning in his belly as he jerks his arm away from Dean. "Do you even care?"

Dean says, "Sam, give me the phone," at the same time John gravels, "We don't have time for this."

Sam's mouth snaps open as he dodges Dean's insistent hands, ready and willing to tell their dad exactly where he can stick his fucking time table, but John presses on.

"Now, I'm giving you an order: Stop following me. This is bigger than you think. They're everywhere. It's not even safe for us to be talking right now."

Sam sets his jaw, fingers clenching tight on the phone, because no, he doesn't just get to decide that.

"We're not going to—"

Dean snatches the phone out of his hand and presses it to his ear.

"Dad? Are you okay?" Dean asks.

John says something, and Sam watches as Dean's posture goes rigid, his face blank.

As he goes from Sam's brother to Dad's soldier in blink of an eye.

"Yes, sir," he says. "Yeah, I have a pen right here."

He tugs the pen and pad out of Sam's fingers and scribbles out several sets of names with his mouth set in a tight, dead line.

"Anything else you—? Yeah. Yes, sir. Bye."

The call goes dead, and Dean stares at it for a long moment.

"What the hell did he tell you?" Sam demands.

Dean launches out of the bed and jerks on yesterday's jeans, not meeting Sam's eye.

"Come on, we gotta go."

* * *

"They're all couples," Sam says an hour later, hanging up his phone and making a note by the last name on Dean's list. "All from different states, all disappeared on the second week of April, same stretch of highway—"

"In Indiana, yeah," Dean nods without looking away from the road.

Sam huffs, crumpling the road map in his lap up and shoving it to the floorboards.

"So, this is a hunt."

"Looks like it," Dean says, expression unreadable.

They're silent for a long moment before Sam finally huffs out an annoyed breath and says, "Stop the car."

Dean's eyes flick over to him, brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Stop. The car," Sam says again through gritted teach.

"Why?" Dean demands, but he's already turning the wheel to pull the Impala onto the shoulder of the highway.

"Dad called from a payphone with a Sacramento area code," Sam explains, thumbing through Dean's call history to display the number.

"Sam—"

"Dean, Dad said he was closing in on this demon. If that's true, then we need to be there!"

"Dad doesn't want us there," Dean protests.

"I don't care _what_ he wants!"

Dean frowns.

"He gave us an order, Sam."

"I. Don't. Care," Sam says again. "After the crap he's pulled, you shouldn't either!"

Dean scowls at him, shoulders set straight, unbending.

"Sam, there are people in Indiana who are going to die if we don't get there."

"So call Bobby, have him get someone down here to take care of it," Sam dismisses.

"And if they don't make it in time?" Dean demands. "We're one state away, Sammy! No one's gonna be closer than us! And even if they are, you don't know that they'll be any good or that they'll take it seriously or—"

"And you don't know they won't!" Sam protests, arms flinging wide as the confines of the passenger seat will allow.

"So what?" his brother snaps. "You're ready to just risk these people's lives because you've got places you'd rather be?"

"By the time we finish the case, Dad could be gone, Dean!" Sam explodes. "Who knows when we'd get another lead on where this demon is. It could be another six months! It could be _never_!"

Dean shakes his head, sympathetic and resigned and Sam knows, _knows_ he's just gonna hate whatever comes out of his brother's mouth next.

"Look, Sam, I know how you feel but—"

"Do you?" Sam demands, glaring up at his from behind his bangs, serious and sharp and not holding back, not a bit, not now.

Dean stares at him open-mouthed, and Sam gives a sad, angry laugh.

"You knew Jess for what, two days? Three?" he says. "You really wanna tell me you know how I feel? You can't. And if you did, there's no way you'd be able to just walk away from this."

"Dad said it wasn't safe," Dean says after a moment. "He—"

"Who cares what Dad said?!" Sam explodes. "I just— I don't get you! How can you still trust him after everything he's done?!"

"It's called being a good son!" Dean snaps.

"No," Sam shoots back, "it's called being a good soldier."

For a second, Dean looks like he wants to hit him. Instead, he smacks a palm against the gear shift, angles the Impala back onto the highway, and punches the gas.

"Goddammit, Dean," Sam protests. "Come on. Think about what you're doing!"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Dean tells him. "I'm going to Indiana. You wanna go to California that bad, then you're walkin' there."

"I'm not going to go without you," Sam says, indignant, "and I am not leaving you to hunt this thing alone!"

Dean's hands clench into fists on the steering wheel.

"Why not?" he grinds out. "I could handle it."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam exclaims. "Dean, you almost died _yesterday_!"

"No, you almost _killed me_ yesterday," Dean says viciously, eyes cold and jaw working. "Hell, at this point, I'm startin' to think maybe I'd be safer hunting without you than with."

Sam draws back, hurt twisting sharp in his gut.

"What are you saying?" he demands. "You want me to go?!"

Dean doesn't look at him.

"You do what you want, Sam," he says coldly, eyes not leaving the road. "Always do, right? Don't give a damn about anybody but yourself."

Sam can feel his hands trembling like a leaf, heady mixture of rage and pain making him feel sick and dizzy.

"At least I've got a mind of my own," he bites out.

Dean laughs hollowly.

"Right, how could I forget? I'm Dad's little bitch-boy. His freaking butt-puppet. Gonna follow his orders until I get us both killed, right?"

Sam sneers, can feel his face twisting into an echo of the monster Ellicott's ghost made out of him yesterday as the anger bubbles up, takes over.

"Not exactly proving me wrong, are you?"

Dean yanks the wheel to the right, skimming the Impala over a corner of grass, spewing gravel behind them as he turns onto an exit at the last possible second. Sam slaps a palm against the window to steady himself.

Dean pulls into a gas station just off the overpass, glowing dimly in the early morning fog, empty except for a pair of sleepy looking bikers and an electric blue Volkswagen with a gas pump nozzle clicking away in the tank.

"Get out."

Sam stares at him.

"What?!"

"Get. Out," Dean repeats.

And stupidly, Sam does. Swings open the passenger's door and stands in the chilly parking lot, expecting to see his brother emerge from Impala to give him hell, maybe even take a swing at him.

Instead, what he gets is Dean leaning across the front seat to fling Sam's cell phone and wallet at his stomach before pulling the passenger door closed with a loud, creaky slam.

Sam watches in shock as Dean peels out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires, stares blankly as the Impala tears up the overpass and back onto the highway towards Indiana.

It takes a minute for Sam to process what just happened, and then he's dialing Dean's number with trembling fingers, stalking back and forth in front of the gas pumps as it rings and trying to pretend he can't feel the stares of the bikers or the college chick who's emerged from the front seat of her Beetle to shut off the pump. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Sam hears Dean's voicemail click on, giving him a tinny beep before it tells him to leave a message.

"Dean, what the hell?!" Sam bursts out. "Are you crazy? You can't just leave me here! Come get me, NOW!"

He hangs up, drags a palm over his face and tries not to think about the possibility that maybe Dean is following through on his threat from last night, that maybe this time Sam's pushed him too much, too far. That maybe Dean won't be coming back at all. He draws his hands into fists, not sure if he wants to drive one right into his brother's stupid face or sit down on the curb and cry.

"Hey, are you okay?" the owner of the blue Volkswagen asks. She's wearing an Indiana State hoodie and has a half-eaten cream cheese Danish clutched in one petite hand. "I mean, I've had some rough breakups, but that was just _harsh_."

"No, he—" Sam starts, shoving a hand through his hair. "That was my brother."

The girl winces, pink lips crinkling in a silent "_oooh_."

"Wow, that actually makes it kinda worse."

Sam can't say he disagrees.

"Is he coming back?" the girl asks tentatively, taking a half-step closer.

"Yeah," Sam says instantly, a lot more vehemently than he means to. "Of course he is. He's just—"

"Just what?" she asks, her eyebrows drawn together under tousled blonde bangs.

Sam glances down at the phone in his hand, doesn't have an answer to give her.

"Well, can I- maybe- give you a ride somewhere?" the girl asks hesitantly.

"No," Sam says. "Thanks for offering but. He's going to come back."

_He has to come back._

"I just need to wait here," he continues lamely.

"Yeah?" the girl asks, not looking too convinced. "Well, do you want me to, like, wait with you or something?"

Sam shakes his head.

"You really don't have to do that. I'll be fine."

"O-_kay..._" she says slowly, spinning on her heel and walking back toward the car.

She gets as far as the driver's side door before she pauses, then turns to strides back over to Sam.

"Look, here's the thing," she says. "I'm sure you really would be fine, but this is the middle of nowhere, and if I leave you here and then see on the news that you got Deliverance-d or something, I'm going to feel _really_ bad."

Sam can't keep himself from letting out a weak chuckle. He shakes his head.

"I can take care of myself, believe me."

The girl shrugs, gesturing toward the Dairy Queen attached to the gas station.

"Well, I'm super hungry, so I'm just going to go in there," she says. "You can stand out here or you can come sit with me. Your choice."

"Hungry, huh?" Sam asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the pastry in her hand.

She grins, flash of white teeth, eyes titling fox-like.

"Maybe I got a big appetite."

Again, Sam has to laugh, ducking his head.

"Fine," he says. "You win."

He stretches out a hand.

"I'm Sam, by the way."

She shakes his hand, still smiling wide.

"Hi, Sam. I'm Meg."


	2. Chapter 2

Here's chapter two! If you enjoy it, please take the time to leave a review. Thanks!

* * *

Meg orders herself a hot fudge sundae, tossing Sam an unimpressed look when he refuses to let her get anything for him, then disappears into the bathroom. Sam settles down into the booth and dials Dean's number again. It rings and rings, but Dean still doesn't pick up.

"Hey, it's me," Sam says when the voicemail gives him his cue. "Look, I get that you're pissed at me, and I'm— I didn't— But Dean, don't do this. Please. At least tell me where you are or — just— Call me back, okay?"

He flips the phone closed with a sigh.

"So, you and your brother had a pretty bad fight, huh?" Meg asks, sliding into the booth opposite Sam with her sundae and her plastic spoon. "Wanna talk about it?"

Sam makes a noncommittal sound. He gets that she's trying to help, he does, but right now the last thing he wants to do is rehash this crap.

"How about you?" he asks. "You heading home to Indiana?"

"The opposite," Meg says through a mouthful of soft serve. "'m road tripping."

"Alone?"

Meg rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, and before you ask, I know how to change a flat, I can spot a carjacker at twenty paces, and yes, I carry pepper spray."

Sam raises his hands in a gesture of supplication.

"Sorry, no disrespect meant."

Meg stares him down for a minute, then looks down at her sundae, nudging the peanuts around on the hot fudge with the tip of her spoon.

"No, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to lay my crap on you. Just tired of getting the third degree about it, that's all."

"Your parents?" Sam asks.

Meg shakes her head, smiling ruefully.

"Sister, believe it or not. Kid sister, even. Wanna see her going away present?" she props her foot up on the booth and digs a hand into her Uggs. "Check it out."

She pulls out a Swiss army knife the size of her pinky and thumbs at it doubtfully.

"Pretty sure if I needed to defend myself, I wouldn't even be able to get this thing open in time," she says. "Or I'd pull out the bottle opener by mistake."

Sam grins.

"Hey, you never know," he quips. "If somebody starts playing 'Dueling Banjos,' I'll feel better knowing you're armed."

"Yeah, with a nail file," Meg says with a laugh. "Whatever, I mean, I'm glad she cares, it's just. I can handle myself, you know? Wish she'd have some faith in me."

She tucks the knife into the pocket of her hoodie and offers a heaping spoonful of ice cream to Sam that he steadfastly refuses.

"So what about you?" she asks. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'm not," Sam says. "I'm road tripping, too, actually. Headed to California."

"You and your brother," Meg supplies.

Sam nods, very carefully keeping his face blank. She doesn't need to know that California isn't just a place to cross off on the map. That it's Dad and answers, justice and Jess, painting and smiling and burning, burning right up in front of his eyes along with everything he ever wanted, everything he ever hoped his life would be.

"Where are you from originally?" she asks, breaking his train of thought.

"Kansas, but we moved around a lot growing up," Sam tells her, the old, familiar lie tripping off his tongue, and it's like he's back at Stanford again, back to school and grades and making up on the fly why he doesn't know how to work a dishwasher or use a hand mixer or stay in the same place for more than two months without feeling an itch between his shoulder blades.

"Yeah?" Meg hums, breaking Sam's train of thought as she idly scoops up another spoonful of sundae. "I always thought it'd be cool to travel around like that. I pretty much spent my whole life in Andover before I moved out here for school. It wasn't bad, just boring, you know?"

Sam can't really think of anything 'cool' about having your entire life uprooted a dozen times a year, about never having friends or a home or a life, about being raised to break and take and kill and never ask why, about being expected to never ask questions or need answers or want anything for himself.

But he can't say any of that, can't let any of it out.

Not to Dad, a thousand miles and at least a decade of pure, unrestrained hatred between them.

Not to Dean, an hour into tearing off for god knows where and coming back god knows when, if at all.

Not to Jess, whose blood is on Sam's hands, who would have listened, would have threaded her fingers through his hair and held him close through the parts with the fire, the parts with John being an asshole and Dean being everything and never having a life or a home outside of that.

And who would have shoved him away and called him a liar or a lunatic or worse when he got to the part where he hunts monsters. The part where he was banishing spirits at twelve. Killing ghouls at thirteen, white-faced and panting as Dean tossed and arm around his shoulders and looked like he was about to burst with pride.

But none of that matters now.

Jess's gone. Dad's gone. Dean's gone.

Everyone he's ever had is gone, and he can't say anything, not about any of it.

Sam just answers Meg with a noncommital hum, drops his head and keeps his mind on picking at a half-petrified smear of caramel on the table, the silence just stretching into awkward when Meg pipes up though a mouthful of soft serve and fudge.

"So how long have you guys been traveling together?"

Sam hesitates for a half-second before answering truthfully, "About six months."

"Seriously?!" she gapes, brown eyes wide. "Well, no wonder you're fighting! I mean, I love my sister, but I don't think we would last six _hours_ on the road together."

_It's not that bad_, Sam almost says, before he remembers that she saw Dean toss him out of the car and take off for parts unknown just this morning.

"So, do you know where you're heading?" he asks instead.

"Mmhmm," Meg nods. "Going to go spend the week at my boyfriend's place."

"In Andover?"

"No, he lives in—" she pauses, makes a face, then digs in her pocket. "Sorry, hold on."

She tugs out her phone and holds it up with a frown.

"Crap, it's my sister. Sorry, I gotta take this."

She stands and walks quickly out of the restaurant, phone pressed to her ear. Sam can hear her give a beleaguered "Hey, Katie. Yes, I'm fine," before the door swings closed behind her, bell twinkling.

Sam is considering whether or not he should use this time to put in another call to his own sibling when his phone vibrates against the table, display alerting him to a new text from Dean. He flips open the phone quickly, reads the message with a furrowed brow.

"_everythings ok. pick you up later. stop calling_"

Sam punches his brother's number in instantly. This time Dean answers within the first two rings.

"What'd I just say, Sam? I mean, literally, _just_ say?"

"Where the hell are you?!" Sam demands, ignoring the jab.

"Right this second?" Dean answers with false-sounding cheer. "Standing in an apple orchard in Burkitsville, Indiana, starin' down the fugliest-ass scarecrow I've ever seen."

Sam's jaw drops open.

"You're working the case?!"

"What'd you think I was doing, skydiving?"

Sam huffs.

"Come pick me up right now," he demands, already checking to make sure he has his wallet, cell, can be ready to jump into the Impala the second she screeches back across the faded, cracking gas station asphalt.

"No can do, Sammy," Dean tells him. "Told you, I'll get you later. Doubt this case'll take more than a day or two."

"A day or—" Sam chokes out. "Dean, just come get me and I can help you with the case."

"Nah," Dean dismisses. "Think I need some 'me' time. Save some civvies, kill some bad guys. S'like therapy for me."

"Dean, hunting alone isn't 'me' time, it's suicide!" Sam exclaims, feeling the anger he's been nursing start to flare up again. "Listen, you need a break? We'll finish this hunt together, and then I'll drop you off at a bar. You can get drunk, scam some bikers, find yourself a nice brunette with big tits and a low IQ."

"Maybe I don't wanna do that," Dean tosses back defensively, "Maybe I just don't want to be around you right now, Sam. Did you think of that?"

"Well, I don't want to have to scrape bits of you off the ground of an apple orchard so SUCK IT THE FUCK UP!" Sam explodes, through, so completely through with Dean and his crap and his stupid, suicidal, macho drive to fucking prove himself.

"I'm hanging up, Sam."

"Don't you dare—" Sam growls.

_Click_.

"He dared, huh?" Meg says, sliding into the booth across from him.

"That offer for a ride still good?" Sam snaps, shoving his phone in his pocket and unfolding himself from the booth as Meg spoons up the last of her sundae. "I gotta stop by the library."

"The library?" she repeats, spoon dropping back into the goopy, melted remains of her ice cream. "What happened to California?"

"Yeah, no," Sam snaps, standing up. "This is more important."

* * *

The Burkitsville library is a mid-century eyesore with outdated computers and godawful lighting, but what it lacks in information technology and bulbs that don't have a headache pounding behind Sam's eyes almost instantly, it more than makes up for with a robust section on local history.

It only takes a few flicks through the card catalogue (An honest-to-god card catalogue. Honestly, the fucking towns they get stuck in.) to find the right book of local history, and from there a not-so-quick search on one of the three outdated PC's shoved in a forgotten corner, like the locals were afraid their pristine little slice of nowhere would be infected by the intruding technology. The whole thing would have gone a hell of a lot faster if he had his laptop (Thanks, Dean.) but he's got it. He's got it, and he's got his phone to his ear, ringback reverberating in his ear before he even registers dialing. And that's good - great - because his brother might be a colossal dick, but the sooner he wraps this up the sooner Sam can tell him that to his face, the sooner he can stop shoving down that hitch in his chest. That constant, crushing fear lingering at the back of his mind that this time, just like the last hunt Dean was on solo, this time something, _anything_will happen and Sam just won't be there, just won't _know_. That this time Dean could... Dean might...

"What?" Dean snaps in his ear suddenly, jerking Sam away from the way the air seems thinner, the room seems smaller, _tighter_, all of a sudden.

"Have you considered the possibility that this might be ritual pagan sacrifice?" Sam asks, and he's proud, so proud, of not sounding as freaked out as he feels.

Dean snorts.

"Yeah," he bites out. "Cyclical killings during the harvest season, always one male and one female? It's not that hard to figure out. I've already made an appointment to meet with a professor at the local college to ask about the area's history, find out what god it might be."

"Well, cancel it," Sam tells him. "I already know what it is."

Dean's silent for a long moment.

"You what?" he says finally.

"I've been at the library all morning. The people from Burkitsville immigrated from Scandinavia, so—"

"Sam," Dean interrupts. "What part of 'I'll work this case,' did you not get?"

"What, it's not enough that I'm not around?" Sam demands. "I'm not even allowed to help?"

"I don't need your help," Dean says. "I've got it, all right?"

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Okay, so you don't want to know what it is you're going up against, then."

Dean makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan.

"Fine," he says tersely. "Hit me, Nancy Drew. What is it?"

Sam's going to hang up on him, he swears. Let the jerk figure it out on his own if he hates getting Sam's help that much. Let him just _choke_ on the fact that he might be the big, bad solo hunter, but it was SAM that cracked this one first, Sam that dragged the answers out of _Founding Families of Clinton County_ and _My Friend Flicka_, Sam that took being dumped on his ass at a fill-up in the middle of nowhere and turned it into saving fucking people and hunting fucking things, just like Dean and dad always wanted.

"I think it's a Vanir," he explains instead through gritted teeth. "They're Norse gods of protection and prosperity. Villages used to practice human sacrifice to keep on their good side and sometimes they'd put up effigies of them in the fields."

"And let me guess," Dean continues. "Those effigies looked like scarecrows."

"Exactly," says Sam. "And Dean, if it is a Vanir, you need to be careful. Everyone in town is probably in on it."

"That tracks with what I'm seeing," Dean agrees reluctantly. "There's a couple stopped in right now, and I swear, the people here are going all out with the welcome. Fattening 'em up like a freaking Christmas turkey."

"The last meal," Sam says. "Dean, you need to watch that couple."

"Already on it. You know, I'm not a complete idiot."

"I never said you were!" Sam exclaims pressing a palm to his forehead.

Dean makes a noncommittal noise on the other end of the line.

"So, any ideas on how to kill it?"

"You sure you want me to tell you?" Sam asks bitterly. "I don't wanna wound your precious ego any more than I already have."

"Sam—"

"It gets its power from some kind of sacred tree," Sam says shortly. "Torch the tree…"

"And that should take care of Buffalo Bill's goddamn scarecrow. Got it," Dean completes his thought. "Can't be soon enough. This place gives me the friggin' creeps. I'm tellin' you, Sammy, lock your doors."

"I don't have a door," Sam bitches. "In case you forgot, you left me on the side of the freaking highway."

"Then get a room and lock that door!" Dean orders. "And don't pick up any chicks. This thing goes after couples. I don't wanna see your ass as Scarecrow Number Two."

Sam glances out of the large plate glass windows to the wrought iron table where Meg has plopped down to enjoy a copy of some trashy celebrity tabloid and the smoothie she picked up from the place across the street.

"Right," he says slowly, and then thinks again: "Wait, we're worried about _me_ picking up chicks?"

"Sam, come on. I'm working here."

"Yeah, I've seen you work. That's not exactly a comfort. You planning to be scarecrow chow tonight or in the morning?"

"Come on," Dean defends, "There's like one chick in this town under fifty, and that is _not_ happening. Real crosses and cardigan type."

"Uh-huh. Tell that to someone who hasn't heard your 'How To Get a Girl Out of Her Clothes In 10 Minutes or Less' speech."

"Hah, yeah," Dean allows. Sam can hear his smirk through the phone and for a second, just one, it's so easy, so normal, like they're not fighting, just teasing and joking and being them, just like everything's like it's supposed to be.

But then the second ends.

The joke dies and the silence stretches out and it's just Sam and Dean, listening to the other breathe dead air over a staticky cell connection, about as unwilling to give up or give in as they are to hang up the phone and abandon this one, tenuous connection to the place they call home.

"How long are we gonna do this, Dean?" Sam asks after a long moment, and he's not going to beg, he _isn't,_but:"Just let me meet up with you, man. I'll wait in the car, promise."

"Sam-"

"Please, Dean."

"I'm not havin' this talk again, Sam," Dean shuts him down. "Get a room. Lock your doors. Let me finish this damn case."

"Dean-" Sam protests, but he doesn't get any further before the line goes dead.


End file.
